


Valentine Reborn

by rhodrymavelyne



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhodrymavelyne/pseuds/rhodrymavelyne
Summary: The stag lay dying and bleeding upon Hannibal Lecter’s floor along with Will Graham. All it takes is a touch from the beloved of a lover whom carved him a bloody valentine from a broken man to allow the stag to be reborn…
Relationships: Anthony Dimmond/Bedelia Du Maurier, Anthony Dimmond/Hannibal Lecter, Anthony Dimmond/Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 3





	Valentine Reborn

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during Primavera and yes, it’s from the heart stag’s perspective whom was also once Anthony Dimmond. I don’t own Hannibal but for a year it has owned me…

I am the valentine, I am the stag reborn. I am the ripped flesh reincarnated from what died in blood on a kitchen floor. I no longer need to write poetry; I am poetry, sprouting antlers, the lover’s obsession for his terrified beloved backing away from his offering, backing away from me. 

I am all those things now that I’m dead and reborn. Only I was alive. I was a man named Anthony Dimmond once. Did I ever follow the wrong fellow outside the Palazzo Capone, but ah, you should have seen him. Both in the leather jacket and in his suit, the very picture of bella figura, style and beauty wrapped into one. My former self could have written poem after poem about him, sonnets dedicated to both he and his wife; exquisite mysteries whom bathed in my blood when they could have wrapped themselves in my flesh. A pity they said no, but there’s so much to pity about my sad, former existence. 

Yes, I made some sad choices as a man or perhaps I chose rightly. I died a miserable gruesome death. My killer didn’t think twice about it. I was far from his first and I won’t be his last. I couldn’t write more than a line of poetry and often felt like the pathetic pretender my mentor, unable to write anything decent, let me feel in every fiber of my quivering fingers. 

I can no longer write, I no longer have hands, but hoofs. I can feel the poetry in each click upon the chapel floor while I march upon my killer’s beloved. He truly is beautiful, a cauldron of bubbling darkness, hot power, and sweet sensitivity. I cannot see his face, but I can feel his hesitation. Yes, he’s terrified, but he’s not running away. I can sense how he might have driven his lover to bloody madness. Ah, yes, I’m starting to see him. Yes, I know this lovely face, dappled in sweat, luminous eyes picking me out, seeing me, denying me. To love him must be to go mad as he has gone mad. 

I’m still developing. This valentine has not yet sprouted fur and grown into his prime. I still have naked pink flesh. I need more nightmares to feed upon. I smell the rich darkness pouring from the beloved’s imagination, the sustenance that drew the lover to him. It will sustain me. All I have to do is attach myself to the beloved’s subconscious and I’ll gorge myself on his nightmares. 

After all the lover gave me to him. It doesn’t matter if the beloved never saw me up close or touched me in person. He visualized me and now I belong to him. 

This valentine has been delivered. All I need to do is allow myself to be nourished and grow.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the events referred to which Anthony Dimmond/The Heart Stag remembers were in Antipasto...


End file.
